What Sunday Mornings Shouldn't Look Like

Until recently, our Sunday mornings closely resembled any other day of the week except Saturday.  In fact, as any member of my family could attest to, Sundays were probably worse than most weekdays since we all actually had somewhere to be and a time at which to be there.  (My husband's job is one that puts the "flex" in the term "flexible").  Because we love God, and because God places a premium on worshipping Him, we consider attending church to be our duty.  So, on Sunday morning we'd all get up early, get dressed ("No, you can't wear sweatpants to church!"), be ushered out the door by a huffing mother who appreciates "start times" and other such conventions, drive half an hour to church (usually in silence since some do not appreciate early morning tongue lashings about getting to places on time), and arrive...late.
After being ushered to a parking place, we'd rush the kids through check-in, hastily throw them in their classrooms, and attempt to find a suitable seat in our church's sanctuary amidst the throngs of people who were basking in the beautiful music being played by the church's band.  At the end of service, we'd weave our way through the same throngs of people who were now convening in the lobby, yell a hasty "see you soon!" to our friends, nod at the familiar faces, try not to spill coffee on or run over the strangers, and grab our kids.  We'd reweave our way out the door and into our cars in order to make the half hour drive back home.  Then we'd sigh and attempt to enjoy our Sunday.
Please don't get the wrong impression of my church.  We've attended this place for seven years.  During that time I've worked with the youth group and volunteered in the children's ministry, both attended and lead a small group for women's Bible study, and been heavily involved in a community group that we call our family. I've seen the church grow until it was bursting at it's store front seams,  contributed to its capital fund for a new building, and followed when it made the pivotal move to its new home. I've been challenged and moved by the continued quality preaching I've heard throughout the years, and can testify as to the authentic faith of the many attendees I've formed relationships with.
But this church...it is big.  And getting bigger. Which is not a bad thing. Growth means life (certainly biologists can attest to the truth of this statement) and there is certainly a lot of life in this church. But in our current m.o. Kevin and I were not experiencing the fullness of this life.  We were missing that sense of intimacy, that feeling of togetherness that I want to experience when walking through the doors of my own church, the one that our church, because of its size, has not been able to offer us.
Maybe its because my own family is so far away, but I yearn for a place where people embrace me as a member of their church family, where they notice my absence and welcome my return.  The small town girl in me is pushing back against the bigness of this place in which I am living and is trying to be more local.  Our old church does a great job loving the people in the community, but for the most part the community they are ministering to is their community, not mine.  And I know there are people right here in my neighborhood who need ministering to.  And there are plenty of churches to partner with in order to do so.
So this weekend I attended a different church, one right here in my neighborhood within walking distance.  And not only was it close, but this church was small, with a total of 25 attendees (I counted).  And, bless their hearts, with the exception of three of these attendees (again, I counted), all of them were over the age of 70.  There was one child present.  One. 
As these sweet seniors invited me to come back, I tried to imagine the chaos that would occur if I actually took them up on their offer and came back with my family in tow.  Imagined the ruckus that trying to keep two small boys quiet for an hour would induce.  Imagined the utterings that my youngest--who inevitably chooses quiet church settings to practice projecting his voice (he must appreciate the acoustics)--would emit.  Imagined the internal stress that would start to boil while I practiced my miming skills in an effort to keep my kids occupied.  And then I imagined the resulting heart attacks that all this chaos would produce in the attendees, and thought how if just one person died it would reduce the size of the congregation by 5%. 
Sigh.  Let the search for a new church begin.